


Hold Me (Down)

by Garotte8Goodnight



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Brock Rumlow, Cop Jack Rollins, M/M, Twink Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 05:04:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7921597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garotte8Goodnight/pseuds/Garotte8Goodnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack brings home a stray. He can stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Me (Down)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neutralchaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neutralchaos/gifts).



> A great big Happy Birthday to Neutralchaos, without whom the asshole fic of indeterminate length would be nothing but a plot bunny burrowing its way through my brain. (Although, it might have a determinable length ;) )

~*~

The first time Jack Rollins meets Brock Rumlow, it's late evening on a Saturday, and the kid is fighting a man three times his size outside Jack's favourite watering hole. The bar is never too crowded, a small place off the interstate frequented mostly by passing motorists who need a pick me up, or locals who want to get out of town to where the roads are open and the dust settles as far as the eye can see to the horizon. The Catskills in the distance like a towering beacon; silhouetted against the purples of the early evening sky as the sun starts to set, gateway between the heavens and earth, watching quietly over the landscape.

Jack’s had a hard week of work, and he's barely got a buzz going when he steps outside for a cigarette; leaves the low hum of chatter and the crackle of the radio turned down low behind for the coolness of the night air. The front porch is not normally this crowded he notes, as he lights up and takes a drag - letting the smoke curl in his lungs, sharp and comforting. There's a crowd of men gathered in the dirt of the parking lot, and as he steps over to see what's doing with the commotion, that's when he sees the kid. Barely 5"6, skinny as a rake, with a mop of dark hair gelled back and hazel eyes flashing with anger in the evening light. It's late summer, and so the sun hasn't set, but it hangs low in the sky and casts red hues over everything; like those assembled are already painted in the blood that's yet to spill.

Jack doesn't step in, doesn't intervene. Just watches as the kid takes a punch, a mean right hook that catches him on the underside of the jaw, and send him sprawling sideways in the dirt. He'd turn away in disinterest, if not for the fact the kid struggles back to his feet only moments later; - this one has fire in his belly he thinks.

It's probably a little to do with his job he knows, that even if he is off duty right now, concern begets him to stay until the other men have cleared away back inside.

The kid spits blood into the dust of the roadside lot, brushes gravel from his jeans, and barely notices Jack is still there watching until he moves. Form silhouetted from the light that spills out of the open bar door and onto the porch.

The kid stiffens and Jack raises hands in the universal gesture of 'no harm meant here'.

"Don't worry kid, off duty cop. Just wanted to make sure you can get cleaned up okay."

The boy shrugs angrily, and Jack is reminded suddenly of an affronted cat as the kid moves to stalk away.

"I've a first aid kit in my bag."

The kid stops suddenly, looks back at him in confusion. "You ain't gonna arrest me or nothin'? Give me a caution?"

Jack shrugs, "what for? Didn't see anything, thought I might help you put some antiseptic on that split lip though."

It's getting darker out now, but Jack can still see well enough when the kid reaches out a hand to prod at his lower lip, wincing at the pain and pulling his hand away quickly.

He gets a quick jerky nods, and smiles reassuring as he pulls his work issue medkit from the bag on his bike, gestures in the direction of the truck stop toilets. He pauses when he notices the kid isn't following him, turns to see the boy dithering by his bike in the light that spills out of the open doorway.

"What's up kid? Figured you wouldn't want to go in the bar past all those guys?"

The boy looks relieved, and, eyeing the first aid kit in Jack's hands, makes his way over slowly. Jack doesn't want to think about what other intentions the kid might have thought he had with him in an empty truck stop bathroom - he's just a concerned citizen doing his job.

They enter the dingy bathroom and Jack flicks the light on, illuminating the barely white tiles as the overhead lights flicker slowly on. The kid hops up to sit on the sink counter as Jack pulls supplies out of the little green bag - moves quickly with the antiseptic and gauze before the kid catches something from the bathroom itself, never mind the gravel rash.

"Got a name, kid?"

The boy looks a little startled when he speaks, though he quickly recovers. Puffing his chest out a little as he replies "Brock Rumlow."

Jack isn't looking for faux-masculine posturing here though, so he shrugs as he tapes gauze over the boy's knuckles and smiles up at the kid.

"Jack Rollins."

The boys nods, winces a little as Jack wipes the dirt from his hands, making sure no dirt or gravel has got into the grazes on his palms, before sweeping the mess of wrappers and antiseptic wipes off the counter and into the trash, piling his crap back into the little bag.

"Thanks Jack Rollins."

Jack offers the kid a hand to jump down that the boy ignores, and follows him back out into the night and the empty parking lot.

"Anytime Brock Rumlow."

He waves as he jumps back onto his bike, deciding to call it a night and head home - he's had enough excitement for one evening anyway.

He certainly doesn't expect to see the kid ever again.

 

~*~

 

The second time Jack Rollins meets Brock Rumlow, he's on cleanup duty after a double homicide; tragic thing, late afternoon and just a bunch of kids at an empty apartment building. Argument between two hotheaded teenagers gone wrong.

There's a familiar dark haired head bobbing around on the fringes of the crowd of other youths yet to disperse; checking the younger ones over for injuries, mother henning the older ones even as they snap at him to leave off, they're fine. Jack takes a moment to step away from the scene.

"Brock?"

The kid looks surprised to be recognised, looks up at him with wide eyes, lower lip caught between his teeth.

"You doing okay?"

The boy nods and Jack makes an aborted attempt to reach out and grasp his shoulder reassuringly, gives up halfway and drops his hand to his side.

"I'm okay, just a little shaken you know?"

The kids voice sounds faintly empty, maybe in shock Jack thinks, and he nods.

"Yeah, I know. You got a place to go away from here?" He gestures at the crowd of kids still gathered, "get the rest of these rugrats away from the scene?"

The boy laughs and shakes his head, mop of dark hair falling forwards into his eyes.

"N'aw," he waves a hand in the vague direction of the building that's been cordoned off, "that's where we were squatting, me and some of the older boys. Younger ones are still in group homes."

Jack looks back at the cordoned off crime scene, there is no way the kid will be allowed back inside tonight. If at all. He feels the regret for what he's about to say building even before he says it, does so anyway.

"Stick around a bit longer, I can't promise much but I can make sure you get a hot meal at least."

The kid looks surprised, those wide amber eyes too big for his gaunt face staring mistrustfully back at him. Jack raises his hands, palms out, defensively.

"Entirely your decision. Option is there though."

He turns tail back to where the junior officers are still waiting for him and puts the kid from his mind, assuming that by the time they've wrapped up here, the boy will be long gone.

He's surprised then, to find him still sat on the stoop opposite when he's done, tapping his feet idly to some imagined beat, eyes closed and head tilted back. Jack stands as close as he dares so as not to startle the kid, calls out a soft "Brock?"

The kid startles upright, all flailing bony limbs and a gasp of surprise. Jack tried not to laugh, but he can't help the way his lips quirk at the corners a little.

He gestures to his bike; "I'm heading home here, if you want a meal and sofa to sleep on for the night?"

The dark haired boy looks like he's internally debating whether or not Jack is safe, but the quiet gurgle his stomach gives appears to decide for him. He allows himself to take the hand Jack offers to pull him to his feet, and follows him over to the bike. Jack passes him his helmet and gives a clipped instruction to hold on tight, though he's careful not to go too fast or cut the corners too fine when the boy is still trying to find his balance - learning how to lean into the turn.

  
The city is quiet enough at this time of night, and as he pulls onto the New Jersey turnpike - the wind in his hair and salt spray of the bay against his face, tasting the tang on his tongue, in the air he breathes, he allows himself to take comfort in the warm presence pressed against his back.

They don't speak even after Jack pulls up at his suburban home, just on the outskirts of the city - across the water into New Jersey. He trails after him as he heads inside though, following suit with his battered sneakers when Jack kicks his work boots off at the door.

  
Jack throws some pasta into a pan of salted water, and sets it to boil; grabbing a jar of pasta sauce from the cupboard and the cheese from the fridge.

"How old are you anyway?"

He speaks idly as he concentrates on making sure the pasta doesn't boil over, pulling out the grater to do the cheese while he waits.

"I'm 21." The kid grins at Jack's obvious surprise when he turns round to look at him, "I know, I hardly look it. Can't be too much younger than you, huh? I aged out of the system three years ago and never really found my feet."

Jack abandons his cooking for a moment, and rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly; he's all too aware of how little the state of New York does for kids like this - who reach eighteen and are thrown out and left to fend for themselves.

"I'm 29." Is all he says in reply, because what else can he say? Give words of condolence for the kids plight? Not like that would be well received, nor would it do one jot of good.

No, if he wants to help, this is how - draining the water from the pasta and stirring in the sauce over a low heat, before serving it in bowls and piling grated cheese on top. Make sure the kid gets a hot meal and good nights sleep - far more practical than his own commiserations.

They eat quickly at the kitchen table, both having fallen silent, and when they're done Jack stands and collects their bowls. He dumps them in the kitchen sink and leaves them to soak until morning, before going in search of blankets to make up the couch for the kid. He finds a few in the airing cupboard and tosses them in the boy's direction, along with a towel and a pair of sweats.

"'M'heading to bed. You can shower if you want."

The kid waves as he leaves, and Jack feels an odd twinge in his gut as he flops face down on his pillows, not even bothering to undress properly.

Brock is gone by the time he wakes up; blankets and sweats folded in a neat pile the way Jack left them, dishes from last night washed and tucked away.

No trace of his presence left behind, bar the smell of Jack's own slightly spicy shampoo on the couch cushions.

 

~*~

 

The third time Jack Rollins meets Brock Rumlow is after a particularly long shift; when he arrives home to find the kid sitting on his porch. Perhaps sitting is a generous word though; he almost looks like he's been dumped there in a pile - a marionette with its strings cut.

Jack kills the engine and sets the kick stand, not moving any closer, but removing his helmet to tuck underneath his arm.

"Brock...?"

The kid doesn't look up when he calls out softly, eyes trained on his scuffed sneakers where he's leaning heavily up the woodwork, slumped over against the front door.

Jack dismounts slowly, moves towards the boy as gently as he can with his boots on - they're store bought, not regulation with a quiet tread. He almost wants to laugh at the fact he's approaching the kid like a stray dog, worrying about the relative quietness of his boots. But when he kneels in front of him and Brock looks up startled, Jack can't help the soft gasp that slips from parted lips, all humour quickly absconding.

"Christ, kid what happened..?"

The boy bites his lip, winces after he does because it's split and bloody, and ducks his head as he replies so he doesn't have to look Jack in the eye.

"I was with the younger kids in Queens, group of good for nothing's jumped us. My fault, we shouldn't have been there in a group like that. Not our place. I didn't know where else..."

Jack sighs and sweeps a tired hand through his hair; "How badly are you hurt? Can you get up?

The kid nods, and though he winces when he puts his hands down to push himself to his knees, he manages to stand okay - even if he looks a little unsteady on his feet. From his black eye and the purplish bruising around his hairline, Jack would guess the lack of balance to be due to concussion. He resigns himself to an evening spent taking care of the brat - not like anyone else is gonna do it.

He fumbles the door open with one hand while keeping the other arm wrapped firmly around Brock - keeping him in a vaguely upright position. They stumble through the door in unison and Jack guides him slowly upstairs to the bathroom, helping him to sit on the side of the bath. He doesn't turn the light on - the corridor light gives him enough to see by, and the last thing the kid probably wants right now, if he's incubating a concussion, is the bright glare of the bathroom lights.

Jack grunts and nudges the kid to get his attention; "Think you can shower okay? Not gonna fall and knock what little brains you have left clean out of your head?"

Brock looks up at him, eyes set determinedly even if he is obviously pained; "I'll be fine."

Jack grimaces a little in pity, and gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze. It's not much to offer, but he'll do what he can.

"I'm going to grab my first aid kit and some clean clothes for you, okay? Give me a shout when you're done getting cleaned up."

Brock nods in agreement and Jack leaves him to it; heads into his bedroom so he can grab his medical kit from the cabinet beside his bed, and sorts through his dresser for the smallest tee and pair of sweats he can find.

He locates a plain white v neck he shrank in the wash a few years back and never tossed out, and a pair of pants that, if not particularly short, at least have a drawstring at the waist.

"Jack..?"

He looks up when he hears the tentative noise, and finds the kid stood in the doorway wrapped in a towel. It's the patchwork of bruises across Brock's stomach and sides that make him frown, his ribs are marked up enough with purples and reds that he might have suspected them broken, if not for the fact the kid had only winced when Jack had wrapped an arm around them to help him inside.

"They sure got you good, huh?"

The boy looks exhausted and Jack hopes to god he doesn't have a concussion - keeping him awake is going to be a nightmare.

"Yeah."  
  
Brock slumps over to sit beside him, and he gets to work cleaning the cuts around his hairline, dabbing ibuprofen gel on the worst of the swelling around his eye with a cotton ball.

When he's finished, and the worst of the scrapes and bruises have been looked at, he tilts Brock's head back to check his pupils.

The kid doesn't look concussed, and he's not slurring his words, just looks like he needs to sleep for about 24 hours. Jack figures maybe he should feed him and let him sleep for a bit, he can always wake him in a few hours before he turns in himself to see if he's okay. And, he supposes, at least after eating he'll be able to tell if he has symptoms of nausea.

He points the younger man in the direction of the clothes he left on the dresser ready, and heads downstairs to find something to eat. He was planning on making pasta or something but he ain't gonna be cooking twice - and soup or something easy is all the kid will probably be up to.

He finds a couple of cans of chicken soup in the cupboard, and empties them into a pan to heat; finds a package of crackers in the bottom cupboard that's still within date, though he's not sure how long they've been there.

By the time he's back upstairs - soup ladled into two bowls and the pan in the sink with a few inches of water in it - Brock is flat on his back on the bed. Jack sets the tray down on the side cabinet with a clunk and the kid opens his eyes with a start.

"C'mon food first. You can nap for a few hours after, but I'm gonna have to wake you up around eleven before I turn in; check to see if you're concussed."

The boy frowns and sits up, scooting forwards to accept the proffered bowl and spoon. "Thanks, for not just leaving me on the doorstep."

Jack can't help as his lips twitch at the corner at thought; "Not sure my neighbours would approve, make the neighbourhood look untidy leaving a mess like that outside my house."

He gets a quiet laugh in response - although the pained look on his face afterwards says that may not have been too healthy for his ribs.

Jack nudges him gently; "Eat your soup, Brock. You wanna talk about it, we'll talk tomorrow."

The kid nods and turns back to task at hand, bending over his soup bowl as though curling around it to absorb the heat. Jack figured he'll be warm enough wrapped in blankets - it's not exactly a cold night, but the boy's hair is still a little damp where he ran a towel through it, and it's curling a little at the ends.

Jack finishes his own soup and sets his bowl aside on the tray, waits for Brock to finish so he can swap him the empty bowl for the proffered glass of water.

"Drink."

He doesn't argue with him, and Jack finds himself extremely grateful for the fact the kid can follow orders. The dark haired boy passes him back the glass when it's empty so he can set it back on the tray, and flops back down on his back. Stares at the ceiling for a few moments before closing his eyes in exhaustion.

Jack assesses the look of extreme tiredness that settles over the boys too pale face; evident in the hollows of his cheekbones and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"C'mere". Without leaving time for protest, he hooks his hands under Brock's arms and drags him up the bed in one swift movement; dumping the blankets over him.

The kid blinks up at him confused, from where he's suddenly nestled in a pile of pillows. Jack can't help the smile that threatens to break across his face at the rumpled sight.

"Get some sleep kid, I'll check on you in a few hours, okay?"

The boy barely has time to nod before those molten eyes are sliding closed; though he apparently still has enough energy to mumble out "m'twenty one. Not a kid."

Jack chuckles on his way out the door, doesn't even bother to fight that tendril of warmth that curls in his chest. Looking after someone like this; it's nice.

He busies himself sorting through the details of his latest case before he turns in for the night; showering and dressing in the softest pair of sweats he owns, not bothering with a shirt.

He's already dumped blankets on the couch, but he heads up to check on the kid before he sleeps - has to make sure he's still breathing after all, hasn't gone and died on him or something.

He shakes the boy awake carefully, not wanting to startle him, and is rewarded with sleepy honey coloured eyes blinking up at him; Brock smacks his lips a little, lines from the pillow pressed into his cheek, and dark hair curling over his forehead.

"Hey, you doing okay here?"

Jack hasn't flicked the light on, but he can see well enough by the light of the street lamp outside that peeks in through the blinds as he checks the reactions of the kids pupils.

"M'fine."

The boys does seem okay, and Jack nods and makes to leave - Brock will survive until morning at least. A small hand grasping at his forearm leaves him unable to pull away though. The grip isn't particularly strong, but he isn't about to snatch his arm back from the kid.

"What's wrong?" He reaches out with his other hand, and carefully scoops dark curls away from boys face where they are tumbling forwards over his eyes.

"Stay?"

The question is quiet, tentative - as though Brock expects the answer to be no, and is already anticipating that rejection, even before Jack answers.

"Scoot over a little."

Jack smiles back at him as the boy blinks up again in shock, moving over a little anyway to make room as Jack crawls in beside him, tugging the boy up to rest his head on Jack's broad chest.

Brock smells like sleep; warm, clean and soft as he makes himself comfy against Jack. Nuzzling into his neck a little, cold nose settling against the dip of Jack's throat.

"Thank you. I thought you'd say no."

Jack is mindful of the boy's ribs so doesn't squeeze where he's got an arm wrapped round him, but he does use his other hand to smooth up and down the kid's arm reassuringly. Feels him melt bonelessly into his side.

"Nah, tell me what you want and I'll do my best, okay?"

Brock looks up at him then; those too large hazel eyes meeting his own, and a wicked smirk dancing at the corners of the kids lips.

"Anything..?"

Jack closes his eyes and smiles - reaches out a finger with the hand that isn't cradling the small of the kids back - and bops him on the nose gently.

"Within reason."

Brock's eyes flash dangerous and Jack isn't at all prepared for the moment when the boys leans forwards to capture Jack's finger between two plump lips, not biting down, just sucking at it a little gently, teeth pressing enough to be a warning not to try and pull away.

Jack looks down at him with a single raised eyebrow; waits until the boy releases his finger with a wet pop, after swirling his tongue slowly up and down the length of it.

"Is that within reason...?"

Jack's own eyes darken and the curl of warmth that's been floating around in his chest moves lower, settles hot and heavy in his gut, warms him from the inside out.

"That's within reason."

Brock grins, something slow and wickedly delicious as he leans up carefully, mindful of the bruising on his side. "What about this..?"

He finishes his sentence in a whisper, before leaning forwards to capture Jack's lips with his own. He's not at all demanding, just soft and sweet and a little melancholy as he curls against Jack's side, mindful of his own hurts and bruises.

It's only when Brock goes to pull away that Jack realises he was too taken aback to kiss back; can see the fear clouding those rounded eyes, that perhaps some unmarked boundary has been overstepped - that the boy has gone beyond what is permissible.

Jack moves to reassure him - chases his lips with his own, a little more demanding than Brock was, nipping carefully at his lower lip even as he slows the kiss down. He feels the dark haired youth go lax against him, melting into his embrace as they move slowly against each other.

Jack scoops Brock up so he's laying on top of him, removing the pressure on his bruised ribs from laying on his side, and let's the smaller man wind arms around his neck as he claims his mouth. Jack is mindful that he's not too fierce with the battered body laying so sweetly in his arms; no room here for fingernails digging into soft skin and harsh nips where their lips meet; just the slow roll of their hips, thick and sickly sweet like honey, a warmth and a gentle embrace - a comfort.

Jack moans at hearing the noises that escape Brock's pretty mouth, running large soothing hands over the others sides, smoothing down his back tracing over the too sharp cut of ribs and bony spine. He is relentless, though not pressing, and Brock keens as Jack pulls away from his mouth to trail a line of delicate nips across his jaw and down his neck. He laves at the junction between Brock's neck and shoulder with his tongue, noses along his collarbone and bites down gently, sucking a new bruise into willing flesh. This one chosen - not an unwanted act of violence, but a mark, a claim, mine.

Jack pulls away and pushes Brock to sit a little more upright, the smaller man whimpering softly at the loss of contact, Jack ignores him and pushes his shirt up enough that he can lean forwards and swirl his tongue over first one dark nipple, then the other. The tiny, breathy noises of delight are well earned, but Jack takes pride in them nonetheless, reaches down a hand to brush over the tent in the boys sweats where his cock is almost lined up with his own.

Brock does keen then; high and needy as he bucks his hips forwards chasing the pressure of Jack's palm. He moves his hand slowly even as he lavishes attention on Brock's chest, brings the kid right to the edge and leaves him there; all lean lines of muscle taut as he moans and whines.

Jack moves on from the boy's chest, and runs a single sharp canine tooth down the centre of Brock's stomach, the soft skin tight over straining muscles, and dips his tongue into the kid’s belly button. He doesn't want to look away from his task as he noses at the dark hair on the his lower belly, but he can't help but look up as Brock gasps and throws his head back, arching his back, his eyes dark and wanting.

Jack lets out a whine of his own as his hips jerk involuntarily; as of yet untouched, though the beautiful noises Brock is making are enough to have his cock red and leaking, trapped against his stomach by the front of his sweats. Jack's own eyes are a little glassy as he traces the boy's skin with rough fingers; smooths Brock's dark hair back from his face, and cups his jaw tenderly, mindful of his injuries, as he pulls him in for another kiss, reaches one hand down to free their cocks from their fabric confines, so he can pull Brock forwards flush against him.

The strangled moan that cuts off halfway sends a wave of need straight to his dick as the kid whimpers and squirms in his arms, creating delicious friction and sending little lightning bolts racing along his spine.

Brock doesn't last much longer, taken to pieces in Jack's arms, pre-come smearing against the older man's abs as Brock whines and wriggles closer against him, bucking into the firm grip Jack has around both their cocks.

When Brock comes it's Jack's name on his lips - and he feels that warmth again in his chest, curling possessively and fiercely protectively around the smaller body in his arms as he follows him over the edge, gasping and panting the kid’s name. Like a whisper, a promise. Pretty words pressed into sweaty olive skin, as they come down from chasing that high; relaxing bonelessly into each other, floating on the edge of sleep.

Jack swipes the discarded shirt up from the floor after they cool down a little, ignoring Brock’s sleepy whine of protest as he pulls away long enough to wipe down their stomachs, before throwing the shirt across the room to be dealt with tomorrow. They fall asleep with Jack rubbing soothing circles into aching and tired muscles with large, gentle hands. That mop of wild dark hair tickling the underside of his chin, Brock's body warm and heavy in his arms. Pressing him down into the mattress, unable and unwilling to leave nor move away.

Maybe the kid can stay, Jack thinks. Maybe.

 

 

 


End file.
